


One Saturday

by floatingaway4



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Henry Needs A Hug, Henry is a gay English major, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatingaway4/pseuds/floatingaway4
Summary: Alex wakes up alone, which is disappointing because staying in bed with Henry on Saturday is one of his very favorite parts of the whole week.This is (drumroll) NOT kidfic! Set in their first-ish year living together.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 23
Kudos: 262





	One Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> I have to give HMS_Chill credit for inspiring this story, because I had one idea, she made me think of another one, and that idea changed and eventually became this :-)

If he ever wondered where Henry got his epistolary skills, Alex knows now. Because since they moved in together, Henry gets a lot of letters from his mother. 

Alex knows they’re still working through their issues, but they seem to be in a good place. They email and text and talk on the phone, and Alex loves seeing the sweet smile that blossoms on Henry’s face when she calls. Even with all that, they still have more to say to each other, because every week or so these overstuffed, embossed envelopes with the royal seal show up at the house. 

And Henry writes back, in letters just as long, that sometimes take him days to finish. Alex doesn’t read them, even though they’re often left laying out on Henry’s desk in their shared office, because they respect each other’s privacy. But he has seen his own name jump out at him when he walks by. He’s not too proud to admit he kind of loves the way his name looks in Henry’s handwriting. If he was going to worry about his own pride, he wouldn’t admit that most things about Henry still make him feel like a teenage girl with a crush. He sometimes amuses himself with the image of a girl living in his brain, crying and pulling at her hair like he's seen in old videos of Beatles concerts. 

Henry usually takes the letters to their office to read when he first opens them, but after that he’ll bring them downstairs and read parts of them out loud to Alex. He also tends to read through them more than once, which Alex appreciates because the second or third read-through often happens in their big living area. The teenage girl in his head can’t get enough of Henry sitting sideways in one of their oversized chairs, bare feet hanging over the tufted arm, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to make Alex drool a little. 

Henry has read him stories about daily life at the palace, various relatives and their family issues, and even the weather. Alex feels like the weather in London is always the same, but Catherine still manages to find poetic ways to describe it. Like mother, like son, Alex thinks. 

Some of the letters include stories about Henry and his father. Alex always stops what he's doing and sits near Henry to listen to those, because he knows those stories are important. 

One day last week he noticed Henry frowning thoughtfully at her latest letter. 

“Everything okay, babe?” 

Henry nodded quickly. “It’s...fine.” He looked up at Alex with an assuring smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I promise.” 

Alex had accepted that, because he has a decent bullshit detector and it’s particularly attuned to the man he sleeps with. Henry wasn’t lying...but he wasn’t telling the whole truth either. 

He sees the same frustrated frown on Henry’s face two other times that week, and each time he’s staring at the letter. He seems focused on one particular page, and there’s no way it’s taking him that long to read. 

After the second time, Alex gets fidgety and starts tapping his finger on his leg. Henry’s right there, at the other end of the sofa, so he wants Alex to ask about it, right? 

“You sure everything’s okay?” 

Henry looks up, his face softening immediately. “Yes.” 

Alex can’t hide his skepticism and shrugs. “Okay.” 

Henry opens his mouth to say something else but Alex puts up a hand. “Hey, it’s fine. Just, if you want to talk about something you know I’m here, right?” 

Henry stares at him for a second, then leans over to drop the letter on the coffee table and crawls on top of Alex. “I know, love. Thank you,” he says, and kisses Alex until his toes curl. 

A few days later, Henry gets a small box from his mother. Alex doesn’t ask. 

The following Saturday morning Alex wakes up alone, which is disappointing because staying in bed with Henry on Saturday is one of his very favorite parts of the whole week. No classes, no work, no responsibilities except making Henry curse and say his name as many times as he can. 

He grabs his glasses from the nightstand so he can see the clock more clearly. There’s noise coming from the kitchen so Alex waits to see if maybe this is a breakfast in bed situation, but when Henry never comes back he finally gets up to investigate. He finds Henry standing at the kitchen island, tea in hand, with mixing bowls and bags of sugar and flour arranged in front of him. The little box his mother sent is open and off to one side. 

Henry is still in the worn Oxford t-shirt and sweats that he wore to bed, but they’re covered by the “Keep Austin Weird” apron Alex’s dad gave them as a housewarming gift. He’s never seen Henry wearing it, because Alex is usually the one in the kitchen. Henry has made it clear he likes to watch Alex cook, the same way Alex likes to watch Henry play piano. Sometimes the food gets cold while he shows Alex just how much he likes it. 

Alex is pretty sure he’s not the only one with a hysterical teenage girl living in his head. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Henry says, smiling, before going back to looking at the paper in front of him and biting his lower lip. Alex just shakes his head because he’s kind of at a loss for words. Henry’s already got a little floury fingerprint on his forehead. The teenage girl in Alex’s head has been reduced to squealing. Alex manages to tune her out long enough to produce words, even though he completely agrees with her. “Whatcha making, babe?” 

He walks over to stand next to Henry, where he can see the paper on the counter is part of one of Henry’s letters from his mother. Alex recognizes the thick, creamy stationery with the thin blue border. But there’s another piece of paper on top of that one that just looks like a photocopy. The handwriting is similar to Catherine’s but messier. 

Henry shifts his feet to stand even closer to Alex. “Mum sent me my grandmother’s scone recipe and I wanted to try to make them.” Alex turns to look at him. He’s never heard Henry talk about the Queen with that kind of affection and he can’t imagine her ever being very domestic...

Oh. 

“Your dad’s mom?” 

Henry nods. “I remember her making them for us whenever we visited. My dad swore they were the best he ever had, even better than the ones the palace kitchens made.” Alex looks up at Henry’s face to see the boyish grin he fell in love with (he’ll admit that now) when he himself was a kid. He would do anything to make that particular grin happen more often. 

Alex wraps his arms around Henry from the side and stands on his toes so he can prop his chin on Henry’s shoulder. “Want some help?” 

Henry nods. “I would love that, honestly. I’ve been worried I’ll make a complete disaster of them. These instructions aren’t very detailed or helpful, and I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing anyway. Strangely enough, watching Bake-off doesn’t translate into actually being able to bake.” 

Alex washes his hands, preheats the oven, and pours a cup of the coffee Henry already brewed for him. He takes his glasses off and wipes them on the hem of his t-shirt, then skims over the ingredient list to make sure they have everything. "Is that really the right amount of butter? Jesus, I think that's illegal in some states." He looks over toward the empty box. “Oh, hey, what was in there?” 

“Mum sent the type of sugar and flour she probably used, it’s hard to find here. And a couple of other things, including,” Henry holds up a set of measuring cups proudly, “metric measuring tools.” 

Alex rolls his eyes fondly and elbows Henry as he digs out their other apron. He’s heard way too many lectures on the inherent superiority of the metric system since Henry moved here. Alex secretly agrees with him, but he's not going to give in that easily. 

“So what was she like, your grandmother?” 

“Very traditional and old-fashioned, a stay at home mum and housewife, basically the complete opposite of Gran.” 

“Oh, well, I like her then.” 

“She would have liked you, I think,” Henry says, glancing over at Alex with a soft smile, as he starts sifting flour. 

While they work together deciphering the recipe, Henry tells Alex about visiting his grandmother when he was little. How she loved to see her son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren but hated all the “fuss” they brought with them, in the form of bodyguards and increased traffic on her narrow little street. He has some fond memories of playing hide and seek with his brother and sister in her garden, and of chasing the chickens she kept in a backyard coop. Eventually, though, Henry would often end up sitting in the kitchen watching her cook, while Philip acted out battles in the yard with the neighbor’s sons and Bea played with a little girl across the street. She would gossip about her neighbors and tell Henry stories about his paternal grandfather and his aunt, both of whom had died years before. 

“I think she was a little lonely, but, well, you know, stiff upper lip and all that,” Henry smiles as he rolls out the dough. “She never remarried and as far as I know she never had any other relationships. Or maybe she did and kept that to herself. Either way, I was happy to listen to her talk, because I didn’t _want_ to play with Philip and I knew I wasn’t _supposed_ to want to play with Bea and her friend, so….” 

He makes Henry describe her kitchen and the old, scarred wooden table he would sit at, because Alex wants to picture it. He tells Alex how the lighting wasn’t great so the room always felt dusky and shadowy and cool, even in the middle of the day. How he could sit at her table with his chin resting on his folded arms and she never once told him to sit up straight or mind his posture. How she hung herbs to dry on the wall near the big, ancient oven that Henry’s dad insisted was a fire hazard but that she wouldn’t let him replace. About the pantry where she kept glass jars of preserved fruits and vegetables in a rainbow of colors, along with a stash of Jaffa Cakes for Henry to snack on while she worked. She made almost everything from scratch, often with ingredients she grew herself. He has a particularly fond memory, judging from the look on his face, of some kind of stew she used to make around the holidays. 

“When did she...how old were you when she died?” Alex asks as he lines the baking sheets with the parchment paper Catherine sent. 

“Fourteen. At the time it was hard, but later I was glad she died before…” Henry looks over at Alex. “I don’t think she could’ve handled losing her only son, too.” 

Alex’s hands stop moving as he thinks about Henry as a kid, losing two people he loved within the span of a few years, and he gets quiet for a minute. Henry looks over at him again and they share a look, and Alex bumps his shoulder. Henry leans down for a kiss and they get back to work. They do that a lot now, talk by not talking. 

After more than an hour of work and only one flour fight, they finally manage to get something resembling scones into the oven. They sit at the table, feet playfully tangling together, eating a real breakfast of scrambled eggs and fruit as Henry tells him more family stories. How, when he became a big movie star, Henry’s dad offered to buy his mother a bigger house, but she didn’t want to leave the home where she was comfortable, where she’d raised her children and knew all her neighbors. “Dad didn’t put up much of a fight because he was more comfortable there too. He never totally got used to the whole ‘living in a palace’ thing.” Henry pauses, and Alex looks up to see his eyes are damp. “But he loved mum, and he was willing to put up with all the royal bullshit if that’s what he had to do to be with her.” 

Alex takes Henry’s hand across the table and holds his gaze. “I get that.” 

The teenage girl in Alex’s head is quiet for once, busy covering her notebook with hearts and all of Henry’s initials. 

When the scones finally come out, Alex thinks they’re pretty damn good. Henry says they’re close to how he remembers them, but not exactly the same. Alex encourages Henry to text Catherine a picture of the finished product. They eat them with clotted cream and jam Henry tracked down at a little import store in the East Village. “We’ll try again next weekend,” Alex assures him. “You know with all these recipes handed down through families, things get left out. We can look on the internet for tips.” He gets up to refill his coffee and Henry's tea. As he's walking away, he adds, "and see if your mom has the recipe for that stew. Maybe we can try to make that when the weather turns colder."

Henry's surprised look quickly melts into a smile as Alex returns with their mugs. "That sounds nice," he says, running one last bite of scone through the jam smeared on his plate. 

Alex brushes his hands together, dusting off the crumbs. “You know, I take it as a compliment that the Queen didn’t like your dad and doesn’t like me. I mean, if I have to be in a group, that’s an excellent one to be in.” Alex leans in for a kiss that tastes like buttery dough and jam and home, and gets to see Henry grin again. Maybe some things are just as good as staying in bed on a Saturday morning. 

And besides, there's always Saturday afternoon. 


End file.
